


Habitable

by ADeedWithoutaName



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gluttony, M/M, Stuffing, Teasing, Weight Gain, Wincest - Freeform, chubby!Dean, chubby!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24844663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADeedWithoutaName/pseuds/ADeedWithoutaName
Summary: Castiel and a rebel contingent of angels are taking care of Michael and Lucifer. All Sam and Dean have to do is stay put, stay safe, and enjoy themselves. Maybe a little too much. Set in S5.
Relationships: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 75





	Habitable

The sleep Dean dragged Sam from that morning felt heavier than it usually did, as he nuzzled kisses into his hair, stubble catching. It took Sam a second to figure out why. He didn't place the sensation until he finally managed to blink open sticky eyes, Dean's smiling face coming into slow, bleary view above him. Food coma. He foggily smacked his lips and tasted sugar.

He felt bloated and heavy, sinking into the soft mattress under the weight of his own middle. It was still so unfamiliar that, combined with his morning amnesia, it was enough to give him a little jolt of shock.

Dean's belly resting against him felt perfectly natural, though.

Sam yawned, a belch slipping out before he could close his mouth again. Dean, smirking, asked, "How you feeling there, tiger?"

"Like I swallowed a couple bags of cement," Sam replied, voice sleep-rough. "But really, _really_ good-tasting cement."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, I ain't surprised."

"No, Cas...really outdid himself last night," Sam agreed, and Dean laughed.

"Last night? Wait, you mean dinner? How 'bout your little midnight snack?"

Sam felt his eyebrows squinch together, and Dean grinned. "Yeah, you got up about one in the morning. Said you were starving. Doubt it, 'cause you could barely roll yourself outta bed after the number that what Cas whipped up did on us last night...but you insisted. Cleaned out the fridge." He patted his stomach through the covers. "Talked me into another few thousand calories, too. Course, you're still bigger than me."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, in your dreams." Dean had to outweigh him by a good twenty pounds. He was starting to get a real gut, sagging over his waistband. "Doubt I had to hold a gun to your head to get you to eat, either.

His thoughts almost immediately swung back to the whole "midnight snack" thing. And yeah, now he thought about it, he guessed he had a vague memory of really wanting marshmallows and doughnuts sometime last night, and getting them. It would definitely explain why he'd woken up full, and why Dean looked more bloated than usual when he lifted his head to look down at him, even through the heavy duvet on top of them. That was really kind of worrying. He'd never sleep-eaten in his life before.

"You hungry?" Dean asked, and Sam eyed him.

"Uh, what d'you think?"

"D'you want food?" Dean asked, arching an eyebrow.

"I think maybe I'd better skip breakfast this morning, Dean." Sam poked him in the stomach, saw him flinch a little. "I think you'd better, too."

"Maybe you're right," Dean said, with as good a shrug as he could manage while propped up on one arm. "Too bad, though. I was gonna make waffles."

Sam knew he was doing exactly what Dean wanted him to, but he was snagged hook, line, and sinker, eyes fixed on his brother.

"Waffles."

"Uh huh."

"With chocolate chips?"

"Anything you want, not-so-little brother."

"You're evil," Sam proclaimed after a long couple seconds of silence. "Like actually, literally evil."

Dean just smirked. "I take it you want breakfast, then."

They rolled away from each other, kicked free of the covers, heaved themselves up. Sam put a hand on his stomach to settle it, looked down. God, it was really swollen. It was about half this size normally, and didn't flow so seamlessly into his budding love handles. But he couldn't turn down Dean's cooking.

Neither of them bothered to get dressed yet, heading into the kitchen. The cabin was small, although just large enough to feel "cozy" rather than "suffocating," so it wasn't far from the bedroom. Dean made a beeline for the fridge, an ancient, smooth green behemoth with a handle like a car door's. At least it worked.

"You think the angels came through before or after my, uh…" Sam threw up air quotes. "'Midnight snack?'"

"Hopefully both," Dean replied, shooting a grin over his shoulder. "You seriously blitzed right through everything." He whooped soon as the door was open, laden shelves on full display. "Oh, hell yes - our guardian angels came through."

Their divine babysitters could literally just magic food into existence (or summon it from somewhere...they didn't seem to understand the question when Sam asked). That'd been okay for every meal when they first got here. Now, though, Dean liked to cook whenever he could, and he was unexpectedly and incredibly good at it. Maybe Sam shouldn't have been surprised, though. He had a lot of fond memories of hot plate stew and radiator cookies growing up.

"Sit your fat ass down and let big brother take care of you," Dean continued, piling ingredients on the counter.

Sam rolled his eyes, but sank into a worn wooden chair. It creaked just a little, not built for six-and-a-half-foot-tall guys, but story of his life there. "I think you've gotten worse while we've been out here."

"You mean more awesome," Dean corrected. As he got started, Sam didn't bother offering to help him. He didn't need to get swatted across the ass with a spatula again because he'd cracked the eggs wrong or whatever.

"Sure a lotta food there for two guys who ate a full meal in the middle of the night, according to you," Sam pointed out after a little while, arms folded on the table as he watched Dean struggle with the antique waffle iron.

"Most important meal of the day, Sammy," Dean replied, then cursed and jabbed a burnt thumb into his mouth.

"You thought about asking for a new one of those?"

"You're the one who said we should try not to ask for too much from them."

"Well…" Castiel and his little ragtag band of rebel angels did everything for them. Brought in their food, clothing, cleaned the cabin even though they'd both tried insisting they could scrub a toilet themselves, kept up the heavy-duty wards on the place. And produced the few extras they'd asked for so far. A TV and some DVDs. Books. A Walkman. A better mattress. Sam always felt guilty making requests, but… "I think they kinda like it. It's, like, a distraction for them. Taking care of us."

"That's nice. Kinda insulting." Dean snagged a frying pan. "This one's fine for now, honest."

Sam leaned back and took his arms off the table when Dean finally started putting plates down. Not only had he made waffles, but there were bacon and eggs too, because of course Dean couldn't let a meal pass without grease and protein. Putting a hand on a stomach that was definitely already bloated with too much less-than-healthy food, Sam suppressed a sigh. He'd just...have to compensate for this with a few extra situps and planks later, when he worked out. He wasn't averaging a whole lot of exercise these days, but it was better than nothing, and it definitely made a difference. Just look at Dean.

Even if he wasn't planning on exercise, he couldn't have turned down Dean's cooking. He probably wouldn't ever get any again after Lucifer and Michael were both on ice and they could get out of here.

To take his mind off that, Sam found himself watching Dean as he set the table. He eyed the way his stomach strained against the waistband of his pajama pants every time he leaned down. It jiggled with every movement he made and Sam could count the freckles on him. He had a sudden urge to reach for it, push him down, and cover his belly with kisses. Sam gave his head a little bit of a shake. There'd be plenty of time for non-weird sex after breakfast.

As soon as he dug into his first stack of waffles, Sam forgot all about sex, and Dean's stomach, and Michael and Lucifer and the other angels and the whole apocalypse situation. Dean's cooking was that good. He'd been pretty great already when they first got here, natural talent and skills picked up working odd jobs in diners and fast food joints growing up, and with good ingredients and time to hone his craft, he'd only gotten better. If, say, he wound up too fat to hunt anymore by the time they left here, he could always find work at a restaurant.

"Son of a bitch, Sammy, when's the last time you came up for air over there?" Dean asked about halfway through breakfast, grinning. Sam's stomach gurgled where it was pressing round and warm and taut into his thighs, and he belched, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Look, dude, just take it as a compliment."

"I just don't wanna have to Heimlich you, not sure I could get my arms around you."

"Well, not with the gut you've got in the way. Jerk."

"Keep this up and you won't even be able to leave the bedroom to eat my cooking. Bitch."

Once they were finished, nothing left on the plates that littered the table but syrup and grease and smears of chocolate, the two of them struggled slowly to their feet, groaning. Sam's belly, stuffed to the absolute brim with something like a dozen waffles (he hadn't really counted) nudged the lip of the table, and he gasped in pain. Across from him, Dean planted both hands in the small of his back and let out a long, slow breath that a massive belch interrupted. He was so loaded down with his own cooking, not to mention whatever Sam had fed him earlier, that he might as well have been pregnant.

"Okay, so," he admitted, "might've overdone it a little there."

Sam would've snorted, but he was pretty sure that would jostle him way too much. "What else is new?" Dean's eyes were bigger than his stomach when he cooked, but from the looks of things, his stomach was catching up as a result.

"Park it in the living room?"

"Sounds like a plan."

They relocated one room over, where a minifridge hummed quietly in the corner and one wall boasted a sagging couch they could both fit on so long as they didn't mind touching. It was about a hundred times more comfortable than it looked, even when you were sleeping on it. Sam had spent more than his fair share of nights there back when they'd first arrived, and had been taking turns in the bed.

Sam was way too full to handle any kind of exercise right now, but as the two of them settled onto the couch, he sternly reminded himself that he could not skip out on it today. He hadn't gained nearly as much weight as Dean had while they'd been here, just a little bit of fat on his belly and hips and a ton of bloating, but he still needed to try and shift it so he had less work to do once they were able to leave.

God, he missed being able to run. Being able to do anything besides pushups and squats. But they couldn't leave the cabin without risking being found, so for now, he was stuck with floor exercises. They were just gonna have to be enough, though. This midnight snacking thing would only turn into a problem if he let it.

Like Dean had. They were both about as well-fed as a pair of prize hogs, but one of them was leaning into it and the other was definitely not.

Nothing Sam could do until he digested some, though. So he let Dean turn the TV on, told him to just restart the movie they'd been half-through last night, and got comfortable.

They were slung together, Sam on the left and Dean on the right, half laying down with their legs tangled. One cushion was definitely better, neither of them could remember which one it was but it _definitely_ existed and they had to fight over it, but they'd been too full to manage much more than a couple halfhearted shoves today. Sam was pretty sure he'd wound up with it, sinking smugly into plump foam. He felt heavy and warm, like he did a lot these days, and had a hand on his stomach, which was bubbling and churning but not in a bad way. Just digestion. He'd hooked his sweatpants a little lower to make himself more comfortable, even though he could've sworn this was the pair with the broken elastic in the waistband. They'd been in danger of falling off him when the angels first dumped them here, three...five...however many months ago.

That was another thing he oughta get serious about. Keeping track of the days. Ask for a calendar or something.

Sam had somehow managed to wind up in a position where he had an equally-good view of Dean and the TV both. The drawstring on Dean's pants were undone, and the old, faded concert tee he had on was starting to get tight around the middle, ride up. Really saying something, since that one had originally been their dad's old, faded concert tee, and he'd been quite a bit stockier than either of them.

Sam could see a thick slice of Dean's belly, pale. It looked unimaginably soft, like he was made of cake or something. For some reason, that made Sam's cock perk up a little, but of course he was too full to do anything about it. Dean must have been too full to notice, because he didn't make a move, either.

He did though, after a little while, ask, "Want a beer?"

Sam had just barely digested enough to snort now. "Uh, dude, it's - " He checked his wrist automatically, remembered he'd stopped wearing his watch because it was a hassle to mess with it when he had to shower. "...morning."

"So?"

He couldn't really argue with somebody who didn't care. Sam sighed, shrugging.

"Yeah, sure, fine. Guess I'll take a beer."

Dean stretched and twisted, groping for the nearby minifridge as he grunted with the effort, and tossed Sam a bottle when he came back up. Sam caught it, smacking frosty into his hand, and twisted the cap off. He leaned forward when Dean did, just the bare minimum required to tap the lips together.

"Don't say I never get you anything," Dean said as he took a swig, and Sam smirked a little, taking a drink of his own.

He didn't really keep track of how much he had, but god, did he ever get bloated over the next hour or so. He felt massive. Maybe he ought to stop, maybe he ought to have stopped after one, but Dean kept handing him beers and it seemed like more effort to turn them down than to kill them.

Sam wasn't drunk. He held his booze too well (practice and what their dad had always wryly referred to as "Winchester genes"), and this stuff didn't even have that high a percentage. But he felt good. Floaty, sleepy. And god, _full,_ a sloshing ocean inside him, skin on his stomach so taut it itched. It almost didn't look real when it caught his eye. He wasn't even surprised to hear Dean mumble, "Fridge needs restocked."

"Probably be full again by the time we - " Sam tried to stifle a belch with his hand, but didn't quite get there in time. " - check."

He hadn't felt like this since his first couple semesters at Stanford. His scholarship allowed for unlimited access to the cafeteria and the restaurants that dotted the campus, and there had always been a party going on somewhere, with pizza and beer. It'd been his first time having as much food as he could eat and no training regimen. Needless to say, the freshman fifteen had hit him like a freight train, and he'd gotten used to carrying a belly around before he got really serious about staying in shape.

Good thing Dean hadn't showed up to ask for his help finding Dad back then. Even without taking all the fat jokes into account, Sam wasn't sure how much help he really would've been.

He didn't realize he'd drifted off until he woke up. The movie was over and the light coming through the cabin's thick-glassed windows had changed. Dean's head was resting on his stomach and, now that Sam wasn't so full, it didn't feel bad at all.

Sam found himself absentmindedly carding his fingers through Dean's hair as he looked down at him. Something about the pressure on his belly was getting him hard again; maybe it was just having Dean's mouth so close to his dick. Dean had folded himself in order to lay this way, feet up in the air, gut spilling off the edge of the couch and wobbling fluidly with every breath because it was still full of so much beer. Sam felt his eyes flutter slightly, heart rate pick up.

"Y'know, petting me like that's pretty gay." Sam jerked a little at the rumble of Dean's voice. He'd thought he was still asleep.

"And laying on me isn't?" he pointed out, though he didn't stop stroking. "You're the touchy-feely one. What happened to 'no chick-flick moments?'"

"I just didn't feel like getting up to grab a pillow." Dean brought an arm up to cradle Sam's stomach. "And you're just so big and soft. Way more than me."

"Well, we both know that's not true, but I guess you can't really use yourself as a pillow." Sam stretched a little, luxuriating in it as his bare feet curled.

"You are seriously packed," Dean commented. "Can hear your gut working away." Pushing himself up so Sam's hand slid off his head, he patted Sam's middle, then winked at him. "Be careful, Sammy. You're gonna get fat...ter."

"You mean like you did?" Sam cocked an eyebrow. Dean scowled.

"Maybe I picked up a couple extra." He straightened fully, both hands on his stomach. "But it's just more of me to love."

Sam laughed a little, then commented, "Y'know, read an article once, a while back. 'Bout how men with a...higher percentage of body fat actually last longer in bed."

Dean was only too happy to flip that around. "You noticed a difference, Sammy?"

"Yeah. In you."

They'd gotten closer, Sam pushing himself up with both elbows, Dean leaning down. He could smell him, chocolate and beer and sleep, which was absolutely a distinctive, identifiable scent...on Dean, at least. Sam swallowed when a hand came down to rest on his thigh. On where his cock, half-hard, was laying against his thigh, more accurately.

"Maybe we oughta test that out," Dean said huskily, grabbing Sam's shoulder with his free hand.

Their mouths met, more the conclusion to a natural progression than the result of either of them closing the distance. Sam mouthed hungrily at Dean's full lips, everything he could taste on them, everything a kiss led deeper into. When they broke after a little while, bellies heaving as they panted, Sam was pretty sure there was a string of saliva running between their lower lips.

"You wanna do that, you're gonna have to let me up," he pointed out. "Not like I can shift your fat ass on my own."

Dean snorted, but rolled himself off the couch. Sam followed. He noted all their empty bottles, which they'd placed on the floor around themselves, had vanished, and that disappointed him in some way he couldn't even begin to figure out.

They started undressing each other, pulling shirts off so full stomachs rubbed bare together, before they ever reached the bedroom, but it wasn't a long walk. Dean smelled good, like himself, no blood or gunpowder or four-days-in-the-car-and-a-wet-wipe-bath funk to get in the way of it, and the way he buried his face in Sam's neck and hair told Sam he felt the same way about him. When they climbed naked onto the unmade bed, they did it carefully, not wanting to jostle themselves or each other when they were both still carrying a pretty heavy load in both their guts.

Sam was afraid of losing this. When they left, got back into the swing of things, and they weren't soft in every meaning of the word anymore. But he'd gotten better at living in the moment while they'd been here, so as Dean declared that his obviously smaller size meant he was fuller and should be doing less work during this round, Sam tried not to worry about the future.

"Topping too much exertion for you?" Sam asked, lube in hand as Dean got comfy on his hands and knees.

"Oh, trust me, I'm getting plenty of exertion. Holding up your gut?"

Doing it from behind was a given. Not too much else they could do when they were both full like this...which they were most of the time they had sex. Sam made sure Dean was ready for him, wet and open, and slid in, feeling the plump shape of Dean's ass against his own thighs and hips. He put his hands on Dean's sides, finding the meaty love handles, the overfed swell of his belly...god. Sam shivered. Dean was really getting fat.

The first time they fucked, it was wild. Brutal. God only knew how many lingering emotions and complexes they'd been working through when Dean held Sam down, told him what to do and how to do it, and Sam fought back against every order even as he yanked Dean closer. They'd both loved it.

This was better somehow, though. Slow and gentle so nobody got hurt, Sam moving in smooth strokes as his belly rested on the broadening shelf of Dean's back. It felt healthier...which was kind of ironic, considering the weight gain and overeating that'd made it necessary.

"Can feel you, Sammy," Dean panted out, sweat standing on his skin like raindrops. "Fucking huge."

"My cock?" Sam managed, strained.

"Oh, yeah, definitely, baby boy." Dean grunted. "But I was talking about your gut."

They ended on a bang, Sam's orgasm triggering Dean's. As they collapsed, careful not to land in the wet spot that'd developed under Dean, both of them breathing hard, Sam dragged a hand across his damp forehead and decided to count this as his exercise for the day. His heart rate had definitely gotten high enough; he was beat. And he'd done it all on a full stomach.

Was he really still full, though? Or was he just bloated from the beer?

Because he was starting to feel hungry again.

Sam rolled his head to the side, seeing Dean doing the same. After a second, Dean asked, "Shower, then lunch?"

"Yeah."

"Awesome." Dean patted Sam's hand, like he was about to get up. But it was another ten or fifteen minutes before either of them moved.

They took turns in the shower. Sam would've liked to share one, but the cabin's bathroom was way too tiny...and, realistically, showering together probably would've ended in a wrestling match, a bunch of cracked tile, and somebody standing naked, wet, and soapy out in the bedroom until the victor finished and they could finally go rinse off. Dean heated up a few boxes of frozen Chinese food from the deep freeze, and they burnt their fingers and tongues on egg rolls and dumplings made microwave-searing.

Sam spent the afternoon trying to fit into multiple pairs of jeans, some pre-hideout and some brought in by angels but all of which he'd had to wear a belt with at some point. Eventually, he gave up and admitted defeat in a clean pair of sweatpants. No matter how many times they very carefully related instructions, wrote them down, or performed brilliantly-choreographed demonstrations, Castiel just wasn't getting it. He was still shrinking their laundry.

Dean ate potato chips, volume all the way up on his Walkman. He'd apparently decided that the boxers he'd pulled on after the shower were good enough on their own.

As late afternoon rolled around, Sam deflated enough to lay on his stomach, draping himself across the bed with one of Dean's pillowy thighs under his chin. The thick forest outside the window slowly darkened, and it started to rain, a steady drumming on the roof. A cozy chrysalis feeling set in, one Sam kept expecting to get stifling but somehow never did.

It'd been summer when they first got here. It looked like fall outside now. It felt like it'd been longer than just a couple months, though.

"Hey," Sam said. Dean, leaning back against the headboard with his eyes closed, didn't respond. Sam nudged his stomach with his head, gently at first, then harder and harder. Soon as he tore his headphones off, glaring, Sam asked, "What d'you want for dinner?"

"You starting to get hungry?"

"I'll be hungry soon."

"Same." Dean grunted. "Pizza sounds good, but I sure as hell don't wanna make it. Can't stand frozen anymore either, after that cauliflower thing you made me eat when they first put us on lockdown." He eyed Sam. "Lucky it didn't ruin all pizza forever for me."

"If you hadn't seen the box, you wouldn't have even been able to tell the difference," Sam replied reasonably, pushing himself up. Dean threw him the finger, and he returned it with one of his own, smiling. "Whatever. Takeout?"

"We've been good today." Dean yawned. "We deserve it."

"I'll call." Sam closed his eyes, bowed his head. "Uh...hey, Cas. Hope you're doing okay out there...we appreciate it. Whenever you got a minute, if you're not busy, we'd - we'd like to ask you about dinner. Thanks."

Dean was shaking his head when he opened his eyes. "You sound like you're asking your dad if you can borrow the car to go to the library."

"What's wrong with being polite?"

"Dude, it's _Cas._ You don't pussyfoot around with me like that."

" _You_ don't control our food," Sam shot back, part of him impressed that Dean had used "pussyfoot" without making it an innuendo. "Or. Y'know, literally every single other aspect of our lives, if we're being honest here. He's got kind of a lot on his shoulders right now, I don't wanna piss him off."

"Fine. Okay. You're right." Dean held his hands up in surrender. "What kinda pizza you want?" Before Sam could answer, he continued. "Maybe you oughta get two just for you. Or three. Y'know, one for you, two for that keg you're growing."

He slapped his own stomach for emphasis. Sam scowled. Lucky for Dean, Castiel showed up then, the sound of a bedsheet being shaken out and a gust of air signaling his arrival. Sam turned to look at him, pushing himself up into a sitting position.

"Sam, Dean." Castiel nodded to each of them, eyes sweeping over their bodies. "You're looking well."

Sam always expected Castiel (or, for that matter, any of the other angels they dealt with) to look like reheated Hell every time they saw him. To crash in shedding feathers, rosettes spreading on his trench coat and pupils concussion-mismatched. He never did, though. Actually, he seemed to look better now than when they were working side-by-side with him, which didn't really do wonders for Sam's self-esteem no matter how many times he told himself they were doing their part by staying off the radar.

"Thanks," Sam said. "How...how're you doing, Cas?"

"Fine, thank you," Castiel replied with his usual lack of inflection. Sam would've liked to have pressed, but ever since the two of them had taught him the standard response, it was pretty much the only one he'd give. "You wanted dinner?"

"Yeah. Uh." Sam cleared his throat. "Two pizzas. One veggie, one…" He glanced at Dean over his shoulder. "Jalapeno-sausage."

"And an order of garlic bread," Dean jumped in, " _and_ one of hot wings. Side of celery and ranch on that. Please."

Sam wanted to roll his eyes, but that was the only way Dean would eat celery, so he wasn't going to complain. He watched as Castiel put his hands out, and eight boxes (half pizza, half sides) settled into them.

"Uh, Cas - "

"Whoa, dude. You hear us wrong?"

"I heard you, but you always call one of us back after you're finished eating for more." Castiel cocked his head to one side. "I thought I would estimate how much you actually wanted, based on your previous performance."

Sam frowned. Always? That had to be an exaggeration. The first one Castiel had ever made.

"Is this too much?" Castiel lifted the boxes. "I can…"

"No. No, it's fine. Thanks." Sam offered him a smile. "We'll have leftovers. Right?"

He glanced at Dean, who would absolutely spend the entire night puking pizza and actually ruining it for himself if he didn't keep an eye on him. Dean ignored him, swinging his legs off the bed and whistling appreciatively as he eyed the stack of boxes.

"You sure angel-d those in quick. Still got that backdoor dial-in to Heaven?"

Castiel nodded. "They still haven't found this one. It's particularly well-hidden. Ambriel is a great asset to our cause...I'm sure I don't have to tell either of you that it is much easier to fight a war on two fronts with full access to our powers."

"Right. Speaking of that." Sam took the boxes from Castiel, standing up. "How's it going?"

All of a sudden, Castiel's face tightened a little, and he looked tired. Not rumpled or disheveled, like usual, but actually tired, in a way Sam hadn't known he was capable of.

"You shouldn't worry yourselves with that," Castiel said quietly. "Even thinking about it too hard may put you at risk. We don't know what kind of methodology the angels and demons are employing to find you, after all."

"Well, we've been thinking about it pretty much constantly out here and the world hasn't ended yet," Dean pointed out.

"Yeah, w-we could do research for you, if you wanted." Sam gestured back and forth between himself and Dean, balancing all the boxes on one hand. "I know I've asked that before, but…"

"I may take you up on that," Castiel replied. "Not now, though." He looked around the room, rolling his shoulders, holding his arms out awkwardly at his sides. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Sam opened his mouth, and something occurred to him before he could tell Castiel they were good. "Yeah, actually." He glanced at Dean again. "Could you get us a scale?"

And again with the head tilt. Sam elaborated.

"It's, like, this flat thing you stand on, and it tells you how much you weigh. Uh, just a cheap bathroom scale's fine." He shook his head. "I mean, so long as it's not taking away from anything more important."

"I enjoy the diversion. Most of us do." Castiel looked thoughtful. "I'll see if I can't find a...scale for you two while you're eating."

"Thanks." Sam smiled.

"Yeah, thanks for the pizza," Dean added. Castiel nodded, then vanished.

Dean waited until they were in the kitchen (at Sam's insistence, because chips in the bed were bad enough) to clear his throat. "So...gonna tell me why you wanted a scale?"

Sam set the boxes down. They were going to have an insane amount of leftovers. "Just so we can see how fat you're getting and settle this once and for all."

"Think you're gonna be sorely disappointed there, little brother." Dean shot him a grin. "Sorry. _Bigger_ brother."

Sam let it go. Mostly because he wanted to eat. Dean opened the fridge and pulled out a couple beers. Sam had been propping open the lids of boxes and peeling the lids off sauce containers, trying to figure out how best to lay everything out, but he abandoned it to arch an eyebrow at the bottles.

"Seriously? You don't think we had enough to drink today?"

"Hey, this is a blonde!" Dean brandished the label at Sam. "Barely even counts as beer. 'Sides, ain't like it's whiskey."

Sam had to admit that he had a point there. In fact, he couldn't even remember the last time Dean had asked for any kind of hard liquor. It'd been months ago, right around when the two of them started sharing a bed. Among other things.

They sat down while the food was still steaming, talking about asking for a coffee table one of these days so they could eat in front of the TV. They commented on how good it smelled, Dean rolled his eyes at Sam worrying there wasn't some restaurateur out there being bankrupted by a flock of angelic thieves, and then they dug in.

Sam had wanted leftovers. He really had.

By the time something like ninety minutes had passed, it was obvious it wasn't happening.

Greasy boxes lay empty, strewn across the table. Chicken wings gnawed to the bone. Wadded napkins. Empty beer bottles. Sam would have made an effort to clean up, if he hadn't known it would be gone by morning anyway. And if hauling himself to his feet hadn't seemed like the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life, after leaving Dean to go to school.

Even blinking felt like too much effort right now, belly so bloated he didn't have a hope in hell of covering it with pants or shirt. That had to be why Dean was able to talk him into bringing ice cream back to the bedroom, belching after practically every word.

"Nice food baby, Sammy," Dean said after they'd set the ice cream down on the nightstand and Sam had fallen heavily onto the mattress.

Propping himself up on both elbows, Sam eyed Dean up and down. "Thanks. Matches your food twins."

Dean headed into the bathroom. Sam was just about to lay down, stretch out, and pray to start digesting when he heard him call out, "Hey, Sam, get in here. You're gonna wanna get a look at this."

Eyes closed, Sam called back, "I've seen your dick before, Dean! I saw it this afternoon." Might be kind of hard to see right now, though, with his gut in the way.

"We both know how much you love my dick, but it ain't that."

Sam opened his eyes, rolled them, but pushed himself slowly to his feet anyway. It was an ordeal, even harder than getting out of the chair. It was like the bed was trying to pull him back in and convince him he'd die without a nap right that second. Just twenty minutes, and then the ice cream would be soft when he woke up…

Hand on his stomach, Sam cringed to himself, and once again vowed to hit his workout as hard as he could and maybe start watching his portions. Tomorrow.

He headed into the bathroom. It was small, so he immediately caught sight of what Dean had wanted him to see: a digital scale tucked perfectly into the corner, gleaming and new. They both stood there for a second, staring, before Dean cleared his throat and pointed out, "So. Cas delivered."

"Uh huh," Sam agreed, then looked at Dean. "So...who's going first?"

There was a beat of silence. Then, almost instinctively, they threw for it. Sam came up scissors to Dean's paper, and Dean dropped his hands, groaning.

"One of these days, I'm gonna figure out how you cheat at that," he stated, stabbing a finger at Sam. Sam just smirked, leaning a hip against the tiny block of counter.

Dean had to drag the scale out into the center of the bathroom with a slippered foot so he could climb onto it. Sam felt a pulse of some kind of weird excitement when he realized that, if he'd left it in the corner, Dean's stomach would have pushed into the wall. He might not have even been able to fit.

Soon as Dean was up, the black screen lit up with red numbers, and they started to jiggle around. Sam advised him to stop moving, Dean protested he was standing as still as he could, and eventually, they settled.

223\. Sam couldn't hold himself back. It wasn't like him, probably wouldn't have even crossed his mind in any other circumstance, but he delivered a firm smack to Dean's plump ass. Dean let out a very unmanly yelp, then swore, steadying himself again as he glared at Sam.

"So you were probably around one-eighty when we got here," Sam estimated, putting an elbow on Dean's shoulder as he peered down at the number. He had to lean in order to see it over Dean's stomach. "I mean, you were six feet…"

"Six-one, asshat."

"Sure. Six-one, with a decent amount of muscle." A lot of which he'd probably lost while they were here, Sam realized. With no training or exercise to speak of. "So. That's over forty pounds."

"Yeah? And why're you so damn happy about it?" Dean demanded. He stepped back, the numbers whizzing back down to zero. He gestured at the scale. "Go ahead, step on up. Bet you anything you're gonna weigh a hell of a lot more than I do."

"Well, yeah." Sam stepped onto the scale. He was not looking forward at all to seeing the damage, but it'd sting a little less, knowing how much Dean had gained. "I weighed more than you to begin with. And I'm three inches taller, and I've kept more of my muscle…"

"What, 'cause of those piddly little pushups you do once a week? If you're lucky?" Dean arched an eyebrow. "Get real, man."

Sam just looked down at the numbers, standing up straight and sucking in a little so he could see the screen clearly. He'd hoped Dean wouldn't notice. The quiet snort let him know he definitely had.

The numbers stopped flickering. Staring, Sam sucked in one cheek and bit it. Dean leaned over his shoulder, whistled, then laughed, clapping him on the back.

"What were you before?!"

Sam aimed high. "Two hundred. Even." Even though he knew full well he probably hadn't even been one-ninety-five. He hadn't been eating, and stress had always stripped pounds he couldn't afford to lose off him.

When he turned to face Dean, the red "257" still burnt bloody into his brain, Sam could tell from his smirk that he didn't believe him at all, but looked like he was going to humor him anyway.

"So almost sixty pounds, then," he said. "Look, Sam, you're the college kid here, so maybe you can help me out...sixty's more than forty, right?"

"I'm full right now."

"So am I," Dean pointed out, grinning.

"Look, i-it - it doesn't matter. For either of us." Sam shook his head. "We'll both lose it fast once we're out of here. Y'know, hunting. Uh, training."

He still had his doubts about Dean, but he wasn't going to say that.

"Don't know how much longer we'll be here, though." Dean put two fingers under Sam's stomach and lifted. Sam let him. It was pretty solid with all the food inside him, but it did move a little, and Sam could see tendons standing out on his forearm. He swallowed.

"Wanna know what I think?" Dean asked huskily. He was wearing a smirk, but his eyes were sex-hooded, fixed on Sam.

Sam cleared his throat. "What?"

"I think...you're gonna wind up a giant fatass. Just a blob." Dean dropped Sam's stomach. Sam grunted as it bounced just a little. "Way too big to lose all the weight."

"Oh, you think that, huh?"

Dean was grinning. "Hell yeah."

"And you really think…" Sam put a hand on Dean's hip, let it slide around to his ass, where he grabbed fast and hard, fingers sinking into the flesh. He saw Dean's eyes flutter. "With the way you eat, and the fact you don't make any effort to work out at all...that you're not gonna wind up twice as big?"

Sam wasn't sure exactly how it happened, but the next thing he knew, they were kissing, arms around each other, groping and squeezing at swells and curves. His cock was half-hard and he had a sneaking suspicion that if he'd been able to feel Dean's, he would've been identical. Dean shoved him off the scale, backed him up into the wall, and Sam went with a growl. Their bellies ground against each other with the movements of their hips, hurting and feeling intensely good at the same time. With his eyes closed, hot little shocks of pleasure flared red-white across the inside of Sam's lids.

"Y'know, if you got big enough," Dean panted hot into Sam's ear after a few minutes, when they miraculously had their mouths off each other, "even if Lucifer got into you. Even if they made you say yes. You'd be fucking useless to him."

Sam gulped, a freezing burn of a shudder zipping through his body right under his skin. Usually, they didn't talk about what was happening out there, what could happen to them, and when they did, it hurt like iron slivers under fingernails. Right now, though, it touched something deep inside Sam. Something good.

Dean had already dropped his head to suck a hickey onto Sam's collarbone, which wasn't as obvious under his flesh as it had been a few months ago, but Sam whispered right back to him. His throat felt raw even though he hadn't sucked Dean's dick yet today.

"Same goes for you and Michael."

Dean laughed. "Damn, we're saving the world all on our own here."

"Maybe that's what Cas had in mind to begin with."

Dean's hands stilled on Sam, and then he pulled back. They stared at each other for a second. The silence stretched out, both of them breathing hard, Sam feeling massive and slow and hugely overfed.

"Sex again?" Dean asked eventually. It wasn't what Sam had been expecting, but he nodded fast. He needed to explore every inch of him all over again, full belly and all. Then they could talk.

First, though, they went back into the bedroom, and peeled the lids off the cartons of ice cream that seemed to be calling to them.


End file.
